


Scars Of Our Past

by theonewhowaspromised



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Depression, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Post Season 6, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sibling Bonding, Suicidal Tendencies, Trauma, everyone is scarred, jonsa, not so sibling bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-16 16:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8109886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonewhowaspromised/pseuds/theonewhowaspromised
Summary: The Starks are broken.





	1. Chapter One

_Winter is finally here_ , Jon reflected, _and very few people know what it's bringing with it._ It had been a fortnight since he had been crowned a King. He had grown up at Winterfell, just a bastard, to be forever in the shadow of his lord half brother. Robb and Jon were very close, though he could not deny the jealousy he felt, how he wished he was the true born stark, and Robb the bastard. Yet now, after being proclaimed the King In the North, a dire sense of dread filled him, as he remembered how Robb's reign ended.

Terrible memories flashed before him every time he closed his eyes.

Jon had dealt with so many losses since he was last here. Robb was one of many. His heart continued to ache for Ygritte, even after all this time. How she mocked him, and would tell him he knew nothing. Jon wished he could turn back time, just to hear her husky voice one more time.

Rickon. Jon could still see his little brother's expression, and his arms outstretched eagerly, just as the arrow tore through his chest. The thought made him shudder, and his eyes became wet. Ramsay truly was a monster. War was war, but to torment people like he had, that was something else.

He longed to have his family back. For Bran to continuously ask him questions, or to muss up Arya's hair once again. He didn't even know where they were, or whether they were still alive.

Sansa was all that he had left. She was all that remained to him now, and the reason he was alive. The red woman had brought him back to life, but Sansa was the prime reason he stayed alive. Without him, she would be alone, with no protection, and Jon would never allow that to happen.

They weren't particularly close as children, simply because they had nothing in common. It had stung that she always referred to him as her 'bastard half-brother' though he supposed she knew no better, always following her lady mother's lead. Now, they were closer than ever, and she constantly occupied his thoughts.

Word was spreading that Walder Frey had been found dead, his throat slit open. Good, he'd gladly offer refuge to the man who did it. A burning desire inside of him wished that a stark had been the one to do it, to watch the life leave his eyes, to avenge their family.

Jon gazed intently at the fire before him. The embers danced through the chilling air, surrounded by a red haze. _Touch it_ , a voice said to him, _go on_. Jon ignored the impulse, and rose from the wooden chair. He walked towards each of the windows, and opened the shutters. A beam of soft light shone into the lord's chambers, and he saw the sun rising on the horizon.

So many of the Lords of Winterfell had slept in this very room, his father included, and perhaps some of the old Winter Kings too.

He and Sansa had disputed over who should have it, and she had insisted he take it. _I'm not a stark,_ he had told her. _You are to me_. Jon had offered her Robb's old chambers, but she had declined. "I'd rather not, my previous... experiences don't leave me with fond memories of that room. I'd prefer to take the one Arya and I shared." She had flushed, and he did too -when he realised what she meant. "Of course, sorry, wherever you feel comfortable."

Despite the fact that she had never told him about her marriage to Ramsay, he knew that it had left a large toll on her, even more so, now that she was back here.

Jon decided to visit the godswood, he had always found comfort in the weirwood tree. His father had sat there often, sharpening Ice. It was always a familiar sight.

The sun was still rising, and cast a warm glow across the yard. A group of knights from the vale were sparring nearby, as wildlings watched on, sharpening their own weapons. Tormund was roaring with laughter next to another bearded wildling. Jon smiled.

It would be a busy day again, no doubt. He had taken to the responsibilities of a King well. Winterfell was in surprisingly good condition, but Jon needed to prepare his people for the winter. Lords and Ladies of northern houses came to pledge fealty to the King in the North. Sansa had helped him at first, and was also popular among the small folk, though she had been more reserved in the past days.

With Longclaw resting in its scabbard at his waist, Jon made his way through the halls. He was passing Sansa's bedchamber, when he paused. His grip tightened around his sword, and he pressed his ear to the wooden door.

Inside, he could hear stifled sobbing. His heart jerked when he heard a sudden wail, and he immediately attempted to shove open the door. It was locked. "Sansa?" He heard himself cry out, his voice urgent.

Something was wrong, he could _feel_ it. He waited a split second, but heard no reply, only more, louder, sobbing. He threw himself against the door, again and again, until it burst open.

When he saw the scene unfolding before him, his breath caught in his throat.


	2. Chapter Two

Sansa looked up at him, her eyes full of pain and desperation. Tears streamed down her cheeks and when she clawed at them, sobbing hysterically, patches of crimson stained her face.

She was sprawled across the floor, her nightgown tangled in her legs. There was blood. _Everywhere_.

Jon rushed towards her, his mouth gaping open in utter shock. He fell to the floor in front of her, grabbing her wrists. Blood covered her forearms and hands, and he couldn't even see where it was coming from.

A horrified gasp escaped his mouth as he clutched her arms, which were punctured, all over, with what seemed to be glass. Blood leaked out between his fingers, and he looked into her red eyes, which were as distressed as his own.

Fumbling, he held the bottom of her cotton nightgown and tore it apart. He took the pieces in his shaking hands, and rushed to wrap her up her bloody limbs. Again and again, he muttered her name, trying to focus only on stopping the bleeding, and not her sobs. He had never seen Sansa cry, not like this. The fabric was already a deep, dark red, and he continued to tightly wrap more and more layers around her.

"We need to get the maester..." He ushered, detaching her from him, and reaching for the door. " _No_... Jon please, I need you. _Please_." He glanced wearily towards the door again and pushed it closed.

He took her face in his hands. The tears wouldn't stop for either of them. Sansa looked at him in complete despair. It tore him apart. He took her frail body in his arms, and held to him, as she shook uncontrollably.

Still in shock, he simply rocked her back and forth, in a soothing motion. It was the only thing he could think to do.

Jon looked into her glassy, Tully blue eyes, searching for answers. " _Sansa_..." He breathed, " _why_? You... You were doing so well, we were finally safe, it was going to be better for you, _why_... why did you do this to yourself?"

She choked on tears, and he pulled her into his chest.

Jon couldn't understand, "we're home... it was a chance to start again, to begin a new chapter of your life. I would have protected you, looked after you. I promise Sansa. Tell me, tell me how I can _help_ you... You're in control Sansa... No one can force you to do anything. I _need_ to you let me help."

She weakly pushed herself up, so that the pair were at an eye level. Her lip quivered as she looked at him. "I... I..." She swallowed, and looked down, as more tears escaped her eyes, only to be softly wiped away by Jon.

"Jon... I'm _pregnant_."


	3. Chapter Three

His breath hitched. "What?" The grip he had on her hands tightened. Sansa shook her head, "I'm carrying Ramsay's child."

Jon stared at her in horror. "Are... Are you sure?"

She bit her lip. "I had _prayed_ that I wasn't with child... I didn't want to believe it... I've tried to get rid of it. The maester... He said it's too late." A choked sob escaped her mouth. "I'm so _stupid_. Of course I'd be with child. He came so often, it was _every_ night. I would've been infertile his seed didn't quicken."

He pulled her into a warm embrace, stroking her hair, with shaking hands. Jon felt his chest become wet with her tears. His own were running into her tangled auburn hair.

_Gods. Why? Of all people, why does Sansa have to suffer so much? After all she's been through, and now this. What Gods would do this to such a sweet, loving girl?_

"I can't do it Jon, I don't want to bring his babe into the world. A _Bolton_ child. I can't _do_ this anymore."

It broke his heart to hear her talk like this. The naive girl who once dreamt of a family with a handsome, highborn lord, was long gone. That Sansa never came back North.

Jon cleared his throat and met her face.

"You can, Sansa, you can survive this. You've suffered so much, but you _survived_. You're _amazing_ , the most amazing person that I have ever known. This babe... Is a Stark. Nothing but a _Stark_. It is your child, and you're going to be a wonderful mother, I know it."

Sansa's eyes brightened, just slightly. Her brows then furrowed, and she tried to hold back more tears. "What if the child is like Ramsay? What if it's a _monster_ , just like its father?"

"It won't be anything like him. With you as a mother, there's no chance. All that your babe will know is love and affection. I'll be by your side the whole time. I _swear_ it."

Sansa searched his eyes, blue into grey. " _Really_? Truly, Jon?" She whimpered.

"They'll grow up here, safe, and happy. Perhaps he'll look like Robb, or Bran, or Rickon? Or a little girl, just like Arya?" He said, eyes bright with hope, " _Can you imagine_? Another Stark, a true northern child. I can already picture them. The babe will be amazing, just like you."

She clutched him closer. With the back of her bandaged hand, she feebly tried to wipe away the rushing tears. He softly kissed her forehead.

After a while, entangled in each others arms, Sansa's crying died down. Not completely, but a bit. She winced as she clasped Jon's hands.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." She muttered.

"Don't be, you've got nothing to apologise about. _I'm_ sorry. I should have realised something was wrong. I should have prevented this from happening."

"No, Jon, you saved me. If you hadn't come, I... _Thankyou_. I can't ever thank you enough... You're all I have left."

"Not all," Jon gently lowered his hand to her slightly swelled belly.

" _There are three of us now._ "


	4. Chapter Four

Sansa lay on the maester's stone slab, wincing in pain. Maester Wolkan extracted dozens of shards of glass from her forearm and wrist, as she gritted her teeth, determined not to scream. It didn't take her long to release a wail.

Jon sat beside her, holding her down firmly at the shoulders. He glanced anxiously between the pair, and looked wearily at Sansa's pained expression.

The wounds were being stitched up, and would have hurt her, but Sansa didn't say a word. She watched the process, and gave a long sigh.

Maester Wolkan had informed the pair just how lucky Sansa was to be alive. With so many punctures in her arms, it was a wonder she hadn't lost too much blood. Sansa nodded, her face cold and stern.

They were also told that her babe was perfectly healthy. It was developing well, and would no doubt begin to show clearly in the coming weeks. Sansa looked nervously at Jon, who smiled reassuringly.

Outside, Jon realised how late in the day it was. The sun shone brightly, reflecting off the crisp white snow that covered the ground and roofs. Near the armoury, he could see dozens of men sparring. Towards the stables, children were throwing balls of snow at each other, chuckling as they were hit square it the face.

Since Jon woke, so much had changed, but at the same time, everything was exactly the same.

Once they were in the lords chambers, Jon sat her on his bed, and knelt in front of her. He produced a package from his back pocket, and handed it to her. She gave him a quizzical look, and carefully began to unwrap it.

When the gift was revealed, she gave him a rare smile. "Thankyou, Jon, they're beautiful," she said, inspecting the fine felt gloves. "I had them made for you yesterday, I thought you might like it," he looked at her heavily bandaged hands, "They'll be more useful than I thought."

He helped her pull the gloves over her injured hands, and she held them into the light. "You're so thoughtful, they're lovely." She gave him a delicate kiss on the cheek.

A fortnight later and the winter breeze began to make fingers numb and teeth chatter. Perhaps it was just a particularly cold day- Jon couldn't remember how freezing he had been the previous winter.

An influx of small folk had poured into the Wintertown, outside Winterfell's borders. As a King, Jon had no choice but to offer them shelter. There were barely enough supplies, let alone housing, to keep so many people alive. Already, Jon felt that he couldn't bare to hold the crown, but deep, deep inside him, something told him that he was born to be a King.

Sansa seemed better, and Jon prayed to whatever Gods existed, that she would be okay. He tried his best to support her, and give her the love and care that she needed, but it was as if she just couldnt accept it.

Some days, Sansa lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, until Jon noticed her absence and tried to get her up. There were few times when Sansa willingly left her chambers, despite his pleading. To Jon's amazement, when present at council meetings, or feasts, Sansa appeared radiant and regal. She conversed with lords and ladies, head held high, with a kind smile on her lips. Though when she thought no one was looking, Jon noticed her bandaged hands shake, or her lips quiver, ever so slightly. No one would notice these subtle movements, but Jon did, and it made him weary.

Davos was also concerned for Sansa, and always asked Jon how she was, his brows furrowed. He suggested treatments- balms, or drinks- which could make Sansa go back to her normal self.

Every night, Jon woke covered in a cold sweat. Each time he shut his eyes, he saw terrible things. He saw Robb's mutilated corpse, or his father's head being separated from his body. He feat the weight of Ygrittes limp body, or heard Rickon's last breath. He could picture Ramsay ravaging Sansa, or Bran, crippled and alone.

Jon couldn't bare to think of Arya, he still hoped that perhaps she was safe, that nothing bad had happened to his little sister. His gut twisted at the thought of her dead. There was still hope, though.

There were times when he saw Olly too. Just a _child_ , and Jon hanged him. Or the hundreds of men that he had cut down over time, and left to die. Wildlings and soldiers alike.

Guilt racked through his body. Jon had killed _so_ many people, or wounded them and left them for dead.

Most of all, he was guilty for the people he had let down. He could have saved his father, or gone with Robb. Been there for his siblings when they were in pain, and alone. He could have done something, _anything_ , to stop his family from going south.

But he didn't. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! Please tell me what you think, constructive criticism would be much appreciated.
> 
> The Starks in this are a lot more traumatised than they are (or appear to be) in the show, so characters will be slightly different I guess.


End file.
